It has been brought to my attention that one weekend in August, you fainted or collapsed at the waiting shed and rolled down the hill.
It has been brought to my attention that your neighbors took you to the emergency room, where you were kept all night and the doctor on duty filled out the intake form, misspelling your name.
You are still possibly the only woman I know whose name begins with a Z.
I cannot picture how you fell that long way, cannot believe you have no broken ribs or bruises other than a few scrape marks along your knees.
Cannot believe the people with whom you’ve shared your roof for decades could not be bothered to look in on you or take you home.
The neighborhood council representative takes pictures: you in a wheelchair in the hospital corridor, your thin frame lost in a faded suit jacket; underneath that, a shirt and trousers, each one a different print.
More pictures from when they take you home, because they are concerned and alarmed: trash in the hallway, in the middle of the living room, in every corner. No one around to answer for any of it.
Moss on stones, rain every afternoon. How much electricity can one old woman use in a month? But either the light bulbs are out, or someone has been turning off the power at its source.